Fabulous Miss S.

Grace in small things, 18 of 365

1. Kind relatives who take us on glorious memory-making vacations and volunteer to watch my child so I can even have some alone time.

2. Skiing in the mountains of Colorado, at 11,000 feet, feeling the dry air sting my face, smelling the crisp clean air.

3. Watching my son experience new places and things, it's like seeing the world from a new and magical perspective.

4. SLOWING DOWN. Sleeping in a glorious bed with fluffy down pillows.

5. Knowing I will be spending my birthday here, with my family, in a great place, and feeling relaxed.

Vacay #1: Breckenridge

Today was possibly the most clear and sunny day I've ever seen here in Breckenridge, and I've been coming here for over 10 years.  It was unseasonably warm at the base, about 45+ degrees, but two thousand feet up on the mountain it was a nice 25 degrees or so.  I was wearing ONLY an underlayer, a fleece and a fleece vest, ski pants, a hat and sunglasses. 

When you are up here, looking out over such a vast expanse of nature, the air is fresh (although, lower in oxygen than my DC-native ass is accustomed to, but I seem to have conquered that, more later, in another posting where I write an ode to modern medicinal chemistry) and the peace and quiet restores and renews me.  Even though I worked physically harder than I have in days, I felt rejuvenated in a way that I haven't in ... way too long.

The only problem about skiing alone is that you have to take your own picture.  I'm squinting because of the blinding sun-on-snow issue.  Also? I got a serious facial sunburn today.  I feel sort of bad ass, although I should be more careful because I know better. 

 

I suppose I feel badass because I skied down from here. And not on my arse.

And of course, the indoor activities are just as breathtakingly photo-worthy:

 

5 Billion Babies, Earlier

Today's guest posts is written by Vicki Boykis.  Vicki is one of those really interesting people -- the kind that has traveled, lived in other parts of the world, speaks several languages and thirsts for more.  Vicki is a freelance writer, living in Bethesda, Maryland.


My Russian Jewish mom (half part vodka, half part guilt) has been telling me that I need to have Russian Jewish kids ever since I was 10. So has every other Russian mom. I've talked to Bengali, Indian, and Italian friends, and found out that this is pretty much the case for them as well. In the West, as in America, I haven't noticed this much societal pressure to have children, with some I know having their first child at 35 or 40.

So I was surprised when I came across this article in the Wall Street Journal, which pretty much states that Americans in general are having children earlier as well.

For the first time since government records have been kept, the average age at which women have their first babies posted a decline -- according to newly released data from the National Center for Health Statistics. Mothers' mean age at their first childbirth fell to 25.0 years in 2006, the most recent figures available, from 25.2 in 2005. Women ages 20 to 24 led the shift, with a 5% increase in the rate of first births.

The article lists some reasons for the decreasing age, including a rising number of Hispanics, who tend to start earlier, having children; not having to fight for careers like the older generations; and, the benefit of young parents.

The last is the reason I will probably have kids around 25ish (given that all my grad school plans don't go into chaos). I love the fact that my mom, at 47, was already able to witness my graduation from college, my wedding (which she very loudly and actively helped me plan), and now is healthy and chipper enough to call me every day and nag me about having kids. It would be great if my grandpa could also live to see his great grandchildren, but I'm not putting that much pressure on myself, because, after all, I am a person, not a Japanese train schedule.

Rachel's Story

This story came to me today from a dear high school friend, Rachel.  Rachel is someone I have a lot of respect for, she is just a very real person.  She's a tough lady and an all around good person.  She tells us of a recent day when she was in need of some pampering and relaxation.  You know, the soul rejuvenating kind.


I decided a little pampering was in order and I went to get a pedicure and my eyebrows waxed today.  As the woman was doing my toes, she kept saying, "And your hands?" 

To which I kept saying "no thanks".  Finally she gave up. 

 

Then it was time for the eyebrows and she said, "and I do the lip too?"

And I said, "No thank you". 

But she didn't stop there...."Why no lip?  It no hurt.  I do lip." 

I still said no.  Finally she gave up but she looked at me like I was crazy. 

 

Then I went next door to CVS to buy a card and some soap and a woman comes and says,
"Can I help you?" 

I say, "No thanks". 

She says, "Oh you just got your eyebrows done.  I always hate how they get all red and I feel like everyone's staring at me." 

At which point I feel so warm and fuzzy that someone has called me out on my bright red eyebrows and even commented on how embarrassing it is to be called out....bitch. 

Oh. IT GETS BETTER.

Then she says, "You know what I always use?  We have this great product, here try it."  And she hands me a $13 spray can of water, that's right, water.  But I figure what the heck. 

 

Well she doesn't tell me it comes out with the strength of a garden hose.  So now my eyebrows are red and there is water dripping into my eyes and my mascara is all over the place. 

"Oh my gosh" she says, "Let me get you a paper towel." 

She comes back with a paper towel but there's nothing I can do since it was just water without soap or anything to get the mascara off my face. 

 

She promptly disappears, probably embarrassed for me as I now have bright red eyebrows, huge black circles under my eyes, a mustache (apparently) and humiliation written all over my face. 

Whine, Flu, Ew

Sometimes I feel so deeply conflicted I'm stunned into utter immobility.  Call it a major case of the inertias if you will. 

I long for Noah's nap-time with every fiber of my being, just so that I can breathe or shit without my personal toilet-paper-assistant, or do a load of laundry, or make a phone call or read an email or write.  Ohmygawd ... writing.  Wha....? And on the rare occasion it seems these days that he does take a nap spanning any substantial amount of time, I find myself aimlessly wandering from room to room surveying what I need to do but unable to make myself plunge into the depths of a writing assignment, the laundry basket or even a nap or the Metro section of the day's paper.  I hate being interrupted mid-thought and I don't like starting what I can't finish and when I know a task will end up unfinished, I'm rather loathe to start in the first place.  As this mental workout occurs over and over I end up feeling a bit depressed and upset with myself for a variety of reasons because NOTHING. IS. GETTING. DONE.

(And the baby is awake, after 48 minutes of NOT LONG ENOUGH GODDAMMIT. FUCKERS!)

::

...Hours, maybe even days later now ....I continue...

I realize that this is just a shift in his schedule and as he grows there will be many.  I know I have to shuffle my day around but it seems like once I find a good way of getting things done and I fall into routine, the rug is pulled out from under me and I'm thrown a major twist. 

It is also largely possible that it has now been one week where I had a bout of solo-parenting, a baby with a stomach flu, a stomach flu just for myself, a bout of solo-parenting WHILE having the stomach flu and taking care of a child with above said stomach flu (GAH.) and then instead of a day of lounging, hydrating and restful recovery I thought my time would be much better spent (yeah, right!) taking care of the husband who had just returned from a business trip, during which, HE came down with above referenced stomach flu. 

I wouldn't be maintaining my integrity to this blog if I neglected to mention and describe the moment at which the flu hit Marc.  I will not be more graphic than necessary, suffice to say, he was about to board a plane home from Denver and had to detour to the terminal bathroom first.  But, that wasn't all.  He became rather intimate, in ways that no one ever wants to become intimate with the airplane bathroom.  Six times.  Poor guy. 

Thanks to all that is pure and holy, we are healthy again and preparing for some good old family vacation time for which I AM STILL NOT PACKED.